“Declan Ross,” I say.
“He didn’t do it,” Franklin says. “Not even possible. He doesn’t even know Michael Borum’s car was the one that ran him off the road.” He pauses. “I mean, did he? What if he found out about the car? Like we did. And decided to do something about it.”
“I suppose.” I play out the scene in my head, closing my eyes to envision a scenario where Declan Ross turns from victim to murderer. “But hunting down and killing someone over a car accident in a rental car? Killing someone to get car insurance money? Seems, well, counterproductive. To say the least.”
“Maybe the killing part was an accident,” Franklin says. “He was awfully angry in that interview, remember, Charlotte? Said someone should ‘hunt that guy down,’or something along those lines. Remember, we don’t really know anything about Declan Ross.”
Declan Ross rented a car from the Rental Car King. If our theory is correct, he was forced off the road by someone driving Michael Borum’s car. And it couldn’t have been Michael Borum. Was someone trying to kill Declan Ross? Frame Borum for the “accident”?
“I’m trying to figure out where Borum fits,” I say slowly. “Let’s go back to square one. Say he’s completely innocent. He just happened to park his car in the wrong valet parking lot. The bad guys take his car and don’t get back in time. He’s angry, but doesn’t suspect anything. So later, if the bad guys killed him, swiped his car and set it on fire…why? They could easily find him, of course. All they’d have to do was copy his personal info, from his registration and insurance stuff, when they took the VIN. But why kill him? Why Borum?”
“To cover up,” Franklin says.
“But why him?” This is the puzzle piece I can’t click into place. “Our theory is that they’re swiping VINs-”
“And air bags.”
“And air bags, from desirable cars that come into valet parking. It’s quiet, quick and untraceable. The whole point, the whole key that makes their scheme work, is that they don’t call attention to themselves.”
“So you’re thinking-it was a carjacking? And Borum was once again in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“I don’t know, Franko. And I don’t know how to find out. And what do we do about Declan Ross?”
Silence again.
“You know what I think?” I have an idea. “We need to find something that connects Michael Borum and his car to the VIN scheme. I think we’ve got to find that blue Mustang they’re selling on the radio. See if it has Borum’s VIN. Did you get that phone number from WWXI?”
“I called this afternoon, but it was after five. Story of our lives, I got an answering machine. Left a message, but I predict no one calls me back until Monday. No one works on weekends except-”
There’s a click on the phone.
“Charlie?” Franklin says. “I think someone’s calling you.”
The call-waiting click interrupts again.
We both pause. What if this is Michael Borum? Safely home, Mustang untouched, saying he’d been out of town, and just watched the news.
“I’ll call you back,” I say. “If it’s him.”
Whoever was calling hangs up before I can get there. No message. Of course, someone could have been calling Josh, since this is his house. Now, star 69 to the rescue.
“The number of your last incoming call was…” I’m too impatient to get up and get some paper, so my pencil is poised over a New Yorker I grabbed from the coffee table. The techno-voice begins to recite the phone number of the person who called. After I hear the area code, I put down the pencil and the magazine. I don’t need to write anything. I already know this number by heart.
Mom.
I flop my head against the back of the couch, deflated. The air, and the hope, gone out of me. I guess I had really believed it was going to be Michael Borum.
A flare of worry. Why would Mom be calling me? It’s past midnight. What can’t wait until morning? What if-
I’m not even finished with my own thoughts as I punch in her phone number, curling myself up into a corner of the couch. I pluck the fringe on a plaid throw pillow. She has to die someday, I think, and if she has bad news of some kind, maybe she’s waiting until now to tell me. Or maybe it’s Ethan. Maybe something is wrong with her new husband.
“Mom?” I say, even before I hear the second syllable of her “hello.” “It’s me. What’s wrong?”
“Well. Charlotte. Where have you been? And what have you been doing?” Mom, ignoring my question, sounds like she’s interrogating fifteen-year-old me after some teenage transgression. I hardly ever transgressed, since there wasn’t much transgression territory for geeks and bookworms. I still recognize the tone.
“Nowhere. And nothing.” The time-honored teenage answer comes out before I can stop myself. I regroup, attempting to find a response befitting a forty-seven-year-old. “Is everything okay?”
“I’ve been leaving messages for you hour after hour,” Mom says, ignoring my question again. “Miss Tolliver from the Paramount Hotel has called me several times, wondering why you’re not contacting her about your wedding choices. I told her you were busy, but, Charlotte, it’s somewhat embarrassing. She told me their desirable dates are already being booked. And now there are no openings available until next year. Unless there are cancellations, of course. Honestly. Most girls, in times like this, would-”
“Mom? It’s after midnight. You’re freaking me out a little here.”
“Well, it’s only a little after eleven here in Chicago, dear,” she replies. “Why on earth didn’t you call me back? I finally decided to call Josh to track down where you were. Now I know.”
Forty-seven, I chant silently. I’m forty-seven and I can be anywhere I want. I go for a triple play: cease-fire, pacification and childhood nicknames.
“I’m so sorry, Mamacita. You’re so right, I have been busy, and thank you for talking with Miss Tolliver. I promise I’ll call her. But messages? Are you sure you called the right number? I’ve checked my cell, several times in fact, and there’s no message from you.”
“Your cell? I never called your cell phone,” she interrupts. “I called your home, of course. Isn’t that where you live?”
What’s that line about trying to hold two opposing thoughts in your head at the same time? I wonder after Mom and I promise to talk soon, and finally say goodnight. Right now, I’m hoping there are more messages than Mom’s on my home phone. At the same time, I’m hoping there aren’t.
Another pitfall of trying to live in two places at one time. Out of habit, I gave Michael Borum my cell number, my office number and my home number. I never gave him Josh’s number.
I can’t punch the codes in fast enough. “You have five new messages,” the flat computer voice reports.
Message from Mom. Delete. Another message from Mom. Delete.
“Message three. Received today at 7:00 a.m.,” the voice drones.
From the first syllable, I know this one’s not from my mother.
“Charlie, this is Michael Borum. It’s Friday morning, early, I’m figuring you’re home. Listen, I just got a registry citation in the mail. For blowing the tolls. It’s bull. Those valet parkers are riding around in people’s cars. I’m getting my air bags checked, then I’m telling those jerks I know exactly what they’re doing. I’m not paying this ticket. They are. Good luck with your story.”
And he hangs up. I sit, motionless, still holding the phone to my ear.
He just couldn’t keep a secret.
Chapter Fifteen
My latte is too hot to drink, especially in a moving car, but some things I can’t resist. The morning newspaper is propped on the dashboard. My cell phone is clamped to my ear. I’m reading the story on page two of the “Metro and Region” section out loud to Josh, since he can’t read while he drives. Franklin’s following along with the story from his house, silent on the other end of the line.